


Tête à Tête

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Amelle Hawke [9]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  When it comes right down to it, Amelle Hawke has quite a lot of reasons to dislike Tevinter mages.  A conversation between Hawke and Dorian.  (Fenris is mentioned, but does not appear here.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tête à Tête

“You don’t like me much, do you?”

Amelle Hawke looked up to find Dorian Pavus, one of Inquisitor Trevelyan’s companions, occupying the other half of a pair of very thickly upholstered—and damnably comfortable—armchairs, situated across from hers.  Skyhold’s library was remarkably well-appointed, and while they’d be leaving for the Western Approach any day now, it would still likely be _any day now_ , which left quite a lot of time for catching up on one’s reading.  It was also a lot of time to catch up on letter-writing, but Amelle had only attempted one letter since arriving, never getting any further than _Dear Fenris._

She really had to finish that letter.  _Not that he’s even in Kirkwall right now.  Let’s be realistic; this is Fenris we’re talking about.  He’s at least halfway here, gathering a head of steam with every step._

Even so, the sudden company cracked through her concentration and she looked up, _The Rose of Orlais_ falling to her lap, her thumb holding her place.  She blinked once.  “I’m sorry?”

“Forgive me,” he said, canting his head with just enough of a breath of apology to be sincere.  “I didn’t meant to interrupt.  But… you don’t, do you?”

Amelle looked at the other mage.  “Sparkler,” Varric had called him—and Varric didn’t give nicknames to people he didn’t like at all, so clearly Dorian had, in some way, shape, or form, earned the Varric Tethras seal of approval.

And Amelle might have given her own stamp entirely freely, but for one, tiny point.

She opened her mouth to deny it—she had no _reason_ to dislike this Dorian; she knew that much, accepted that much.  In fact, the small, hot flame of embarrassment burned at the nape of her neck because she _did_ know it.

His smile was small and wan.  “And now you’ve hesitated so long if you try to deny it I’ll know you’re lying.”

“I… am sorry,” she finally said, drawing in a breath and releasing it again.  “I—you must think me abominably rude.”

“You admit it, then.”

She looked away, grimacing.  She didn’t want to _admit_ to disliking someone out of hand; it sat ill with her.  And yet.  “I hardly know you, ser.”  It wasn’t an admission, but it wasn’t outright denial, either.  

Dorian, evidently, was one of the sharper tacks in the drawer; he acknowledged her words by pressing his lips into a somewhat rueful line. “Yes, well, that is why I decided to come ask, you see.  I thought, if one were to be disliked by the Champion of Kirkwall, one ought to have least done something to earn it.  I asked Varric first, but all he told me was that, as married woman, being placed in such close proximity to such a perfect profile was enough to send you into the very depths of despair.”

Amelle’s lips twitched around a laugh she didn’t quite release; it manifested as a cough, instead.  “He said that, did he?”

“I suppose he thought an appeal to my vanity might throw me off the scent.  On the other hand, have you ever seen such flawlessness?” he asked, turning to the side.  “I ought to be on coins.”  He plunged on, giving her no room to reply.  “Besides, it’s not despair you radiate,” he added, thoughtfully.  “It’s a very genteel, polite sort of dislike. Not _entirely_ unpleasant to be on the receiving end of, but it’s quite rare people are resistant to my charm; if someone finds me anything less than a complete delight, I like to know why that is.”

Well, at least she was polite in her rudeness; Fenris hadn’t rubbed off on her in that capacity. Cold comfort though that was.    “And Varric hasn’t told you anything?”

“He recommended I read his book,” Dorian replied.  “But I thought that might make me come off as even less likable. _Yes, hello, I’ve read all about you; could you possibly tell me why you find me so odious?_ ”  He shook his head.  “No.  The biographer had no insight for me, so I thought to refer to the source material, as it were.”

Honestly, it was difficult to keep from smiling—and even difficult _to_ dislike the man at all.  He had charm, that was certain, and lots of it.  And that may have even been part of the problem.  “You really want to know?”

“My good woman, if I’m to brag about being on the Champion’s bad books, I’ll need to know why so I can properly capitalize on it.”

That elicited a laugh, short and soft.  “ _Bad books_ might be overstating it, if the truth’s to be known.  In any case, it’s a very long story, and a very short one.”

“The very best kind.”

Shifting in the armchair, Amelle set her book aside.  “It’s nothing so cut and dried, nothing so simple as… as liking you, ser, or disliking you.  It’s—truthfully, I thought I’d been doing a better job of attempting to remain impartial.  You have never wronged me, and I know it.  But…” she breathed in and out again, slowly.  “My husband is… from Tevinter, by way of Seheron.”

Puzzlement creased Dorian’s brow.  “And here I was, ready to bet money that you shared the same silly biases everyone in the South—”  And then he went silent.  When he spoke again, his voice was softer, more thoughtful.  Careful.  As if he were untangling a prickly problem.  Amelle supposed he was.  Fenris was prickly, still prickly, and would likely be forever prickly.  Not that this was news to Amelle, or would ever cease to suit her.  But still.  Prickly.

“From Tevinter by way of Seheron, you said?”

She rubbed her index finger slowly back and forth across one of the folds in the chair’s leather.  “I did.”

“I’d say that’s not a terribly common path, but I have a feeling you might argue with me on that point.”

Well, he wasn’t trying to play stupid, which was a point in his favor.  “My husband,” she said, keeping her words slow and measured as she watched Dorian’s face for any hint of reaction, “was a slave to a magister by the name of Danarius.”

His eyebrows lifted, revealing recognition, but little else. “I see.”

Clearing her throat and taking care her hands did not curl into fists, which was a common side-effect of discussing Danarius, Amelle asked, “Did you… did you know him?”

“I hope you’ll find it sufficient if I tell you I traveled in very different circles from Danarius.  I did not know him—few people _knew_ him.  But everyone in Minrathous knew of him.  His was a reputation… shall we say, very carefully cultivated, to say nothing of _promoted_.  Which makes him different from exactly no one in Tevinter’s upper echelons.”

“Made.”

His arched eyebrow was enough to tell Amelle Dorian understood precisely what she’d said. “Killed him, did you?”

“I only helped.”  She looked down at her hands.  “Beyond Danarius, I encountered a fair number of your countrymen in Kirkwall, and…”  She pressed her lips together.  “Slavers and hunters tend not to make the best impressions.”

“They’re not the country’s best ambassadors, that’s true.  Now, tell me, Champion—”

“Oh, Maker’s balls,” Amelle groaned, her expression turning pained, “don’t call me that.”

“Viscountess?”

Her pained expression slid into narrow-eyed speculation.  “I thought you said you hadn't read _The Tale of the Champion_?”

“That doesn’t mean I haven’t done any research.”

“A fair point.  In any event, you probably shouldn’t call me that, either.  Not my title anymore.” 

“Interesting, too, how you were able to be Viscountess—even for a short while—when the South’s laws quite prohibit it.”

“It was more an office than a landed title,” she explained, though he was right—and no one had been more surprised than Amelle it had happened at all.  “Besides, admitting they had a mage as viscountess would have led to someone asking why nobody had realized earlier I was an apostate.  I imagine it would’ve proved embarrassing for all parties.”

Dorian leaned back in his chair, shifting and recrossing his legs.  “So the world pretends you aren’t what you are?”

“There’s nothing quite like ignoring the bronto in the living room, wouldn’t you say?”  She shrugged.  

“I’m more familiar with that than you know.”

“You have to understand,” she told him, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees, hands lightly clasped.  The leather creaked beneath her.  “It’s not… it’s not just that you’re a Tevinter mage.  Varric seems to like you well enough, and that ought to be good enough for me.  But you have to understand,” she said again, “I have a better idea than most of what Fenris went through.”

And there it was.  Recognition rippled across Dorian’s features like wind through a field of wheat.  “Did you say… Fenris?” he asked quietly.  “Elven—with markings of—”

“Lyrium,” Amelle supplied evenly.  “Yes.”  Her face and voice remained neutral, but a stream of mana simmered beneath her skin, poised, _waiting_ —and whether it was horror or greed she waited for, even Amelle could not say.  Horror was one thing.  Greed, however—well, she’d hate to sour her welcome at Skyhold by turning the Inquisitor’s friend into paste.  Best to avoid that outcome if she could.  “Lyrium markings.  He was Danarius’ bodyguard.”

“And he… he was the one to kill Danarius.  And, dare I hope, his protege?  A wretched, vulpine woman.  I could never be bothered to remember her name.”

“Hadriana.  Yes.”

Dorian breathed a soft laugh, looking down as he shook his head.  “Well.  Wonders never cease.”

This was neither horror, nor greed.  It was amusement—very wry amusement, but amusement nonetheless.  Which she hadn’t been remotely prepared for, as evidenced by her sudden stammer.  “I-I’m sorry?”

He looked up, lips tilted into a half smile.  “Not that this means anything to you, Lady Hawke, but I have a bet I need to collect on.”

“Wait,” she blurted.  _A bet?_ “What?”

“If he’s even still alive, that is.”

_“What?”_

“Still, worth checking up on.”

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to explain.”

The half smile flourished into a full grin and a flash of teeth.  “As it would happen, it’d take very little persuasion at all.” Dorian lifted his shoulders in a graceful shrug.  “Danarius, as I said, cultivated his reputation.  He liked to be seen.  That… _bodyguard_ of his was…” he trailed off with a frown, clearly trying to choose his words carefully.  “A status symbol, for lack of a better term.  _Look at me,_ his presence all but shouted, _I have complete control over this phenomenally deadly thing.  All shall bow to my power,_ etcetera, etcetera _._   And that, he supposed—I _suppose_ he supposed—was meant to translate to any power he wanted to wield, in the Magesterium or beyond.”

“So, what, you think he wanted to be Archon?”

“More than that, my dear.  I think Danarius _counted_ on being Archon someday. Expected it.  Was planning on it.”  His brow furrowed as a ghost of worry glanced over his features before disappearing again.  “There wouldn’t have been enough sway to keep him from becoming the popular—and I use that term very loosely—choice.”  He paused a moment, as if not sure whether to continue.  “You might laugh, if you believe me at all, but I think you and your better half did my country a great service.”

That… certainly gave her something to mull over.  “A great service?  You’re… joking.  Right?”

Dorian shook his head.  “About many things—but not this.  There are many in Tevinter—more than you know—who would be happy to see fewer magisters of that particular stripe.  There are many problems in my homeland; unfortunately, it sounds as if you had the bad luck to meet all of them at once.”

And that was when Amelle noticed—something changed in Dorian’s demeanor when he began discussing Tevinter.  Charm stepped quietly into the background as earnest sincerity moved forward.  It was a matter he clearly felt passionately about; more than that, Amelle saw in Dorian something she hadn’t seen in herself for longer than she cared to admit: a desire to change things for the better.  A rare quality, particularly in a world where so much was broken and so many people were running around like headless chickens trying to figure out how to make things less broken, but not necessarily _better._   Oh, she was confident the Inquisitor and her compatriots wanted a better Thedas to rise from the ruins of this one, but that was a broader picture composed of bolder strokes.  But on a smaller scale, nobody could worry about a building better world until demons quit pouring out into this one.  

You could either tend a wound just so it stopped bleeding, or so the scarring would be minimal.  And sometimes wounds had to be patched in the heat of battle.  She certainly knew a fair bit about those.

“All right,” Amelle said on a sigh, pushing aside her earlier thoughts to be dealt with later, preferably with a glass of something fermented and a fresh piece of parchment. Despite her best efforts, letters to doubtless angry elves did not write themselves.  “Tell me, what’s this bet about?”

“One of the other mages in the Tevinter Circle—a devout little sycophant, terribly easy to rile—was extolling Danarius’… well, not _virtues_ , obviously.  Virtues as he saw them, perhaps.  It was annoying.  _He_ was annoying.  In any case, I bet a cask of Agreggio Pavali the bodyguard would be Danarius’ undoing.”  Dorian mimed a grabbing, gripping motion. “Your Fenris—he was the one who did that thing, right? With his fist?  He could, as the rumors went, reach clean through a man, or whatever else he wanted.”  At Amelle’s nod, he nodded himself. “Seemed rather showy, if you ask me.  Also, shortsighted of Danarius.  In any case, I may have got a cask of wine out of it.”

“Agreggio Pavali, you said?”

“I did indeed.  If you’ve not tried it, you’re in for a treat.  And now’s your chance to tell me it’s swill, naturally.”

“On the contrary, I’ve had it.  It’s divine.”

“And you continue to surprise me.”  Dorian regarded Amelle a moment, thoughtfully.  “Perhaps, if you’re still here if and when I receive my winnings, I might persuade you to share a bottle with me?”

“I will say yes, on one condition.”

“I dislike conditions, my lady,” Dorian replied, wrinkling his nose.  “But name it, and we’ll see if we can’t work something out.”

Releasing her clasped hands and leaning back in the chair, Amelle lifted her chin to meet Dorian’s eyes.  “It’s been made evident to me there are certain… gaps in my education of your homeland,” she said.  “And its people,” she added, somewhat pointedly.  “Maybe you wouldn’t mind enlightening me?”

She hadn’t noticed the tension Dorian had been carrying in his shoulders until he relaxed.  It changed everything about his posture, about the way he carried himself.  His smile, not the bright flash of teeth she’d already been treated to, was instead small and warm.  “Believe me when I say it would be my sincerest pleasure, Lady Hawke.”

Amelle grinned at him.  “Really, just Hawke will do.”


End file.
